Moments of Addiction
by lipstick traces
Summary: twincest. angst. do you know what it's like to be addicted?


A/N: so this is really dark and creepy. The main character- one of the twins but you never find out who- is talking. There are no quotation marks because the whole thing is him talking. You see? so this has hints of twincest. Huzzah. Leave if you don't like it. This was inspired by the film "Memento." Go see it if you haven't already.

**Moments of Addiction**

        It's simple, really. I mean, addiction is simple in the end, isn't it? And addiction is what this is all about, after all. My addiction. My obsession. Your cowardice.

        Have you ever been addicted? No? You don't know what it's like? I wouldn't expect you to. There's not enough human left in you to be addicted. But I'll tell you what it's like, because I have time.

        It's like trying something new, something wonderful, something so good you can't resist it when it calls again. It's like trying to hide from someone who can see through solid objects. It's like trying to lie to a ghost.

        After awhile, it fades, the sweetness, the novelty. But you're left needing it without knowing why, like air. But every now and then there are moments. Moments when everything seems new again.

        Like when you first fell in love with him. And he first fell in love with you. Like the first time you finally became what everyone thought you were- you were him, and he was you.

        Or like the first time you doubted it all. When you thought that maybe you didn't love him, just yourself. Maybe you weren't real, or he wasn't real, or maybe you were just trying to cling to a part of yourselves you would have lost if you were alone. Maybe you were just too afraid to let go.

        New moments like the first time you fought. Or the first time he almost hit you. And the first time you almost hit him.

        Or the way his hair felt when you ran your fingers through it. The way his robes smelled after a game of Quidditch. The way his tears and his sweat felt the same when you tried to clean him up. The way the dirt smudged over his skin and his freckles and the way his lips were always chapped. The way you looked into his face and couldn't tell the difference between him and your reflection.

        Or moments like waking up and realizing he's not there. And thinking that he's just in the bathroom. Or getting a drink. Or eating a snack. And then realizing that he's not there, and won't be there, and that his side of the bed will always be cold.

        Like waiting three years for any kind of news. Like watching an empty coffin being lowered into the ground and knowing that maybe, maybe he was still alive. Like looking up every time you heard footsteps. Like seeing someone else every time.

        New moments like that jolt the addiction back into you and you know why you got addicted in the first place. Moments like that open the prison door while you're chained to the wall. Moments like that hand you a fire extinguisher after it's too late. You always have the feeling that maybe you could escape, you could get over it, but you don't quite know how.

        You know what he said to me, the last time he saw me? He said, don't worry. He said that you'd never let any harm come to him. He said, trust me. He made it a question of my trust in his judgment. He made me forget that it was a question of whether I'd see him again.

        Three years. Three fucking years, no word from you, no word from him. I knew he was dead. I felt him die.

        But you? They thought you died with him. They figured you must have, that you wouldn't have let him die alone like that. Me? I knew you betrayed him. I knew you left him to face them alone. I knew that if you had stayed, he would have survived.

        I knew you joined them.

        But no one believed me- they said I was blinded by grief; they said that you would never. They said, think of who he is.

        I know what he thought you were. I know what they believed. I know what you weren't, what you aren't.

        Do you know what it's like to fall in love? Do you know what it's like to need someone with every fucking thing you have? No. Of course you don't.

        You say it wasn't you, that you didn't run away. So why are you alive? And why isn't he?

        I have one more question. One I've been waiting to ask you for years. Ever since I watched you drop flower on his empty coffin. Ever since I saw you pretend to cry for him.

        Did he beg for his life?

        And will you beg for yours?


End file.
